


Wind's Howling

by LuckyGun



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Brothers, Depressed Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Roach is the Best (The Witcher), Temporary Character Death, Timeline What Timeline, Toussaint (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:49:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26700133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuckyGun/pseuds/LuckyGun
Summary: Geralt falls in battle. And Jaskier? Jaskier just falls apart. Finding proof of the White Wolf's demise, the bard tries to find a balance and fails, until a hidden message leads him to the evidence of how deep their friendship had grown.TEMPORARY character death. Read the tags, people!
Comments: 2
Kudos: 53





	Wind's Howling

The width of the market seemed an ocean and an inch, all at once.

He didn’t know what originally drew his interest in the small vendor. It was one of a hundred in the grand city, nothing outstanding, the blankets draped across it worn and sun-bleached. The barker was similarly unremarkable, just another unwashed face that would be lost to time. But his wares were dim and tarnished, dull in the bright sun. Perhaps that is why he looked. A winking kiss of daylight off metal? The spotted gleam that he would recognize in sleep and death?

He didn’t know.

But crossing the cobblestones, legs unnaturally steady even as denial and fear began to course through him and freeze his veins, there was one thing perfectly clear.

He had never felt so lost.

Geralt’s silver and steel swords lay across the table, a cracked medallion wrapped messily around their twin hilts, everything speckled with dried blood.

Jaskier stared at the items forever, it seemed. The rest of the world grew quiet in his ears, the booming shouts and high-pitched laughter drowned out by his own terror. The tips of his fingers tingled, his callouses burned, and his whole form trembled.

“Cheers to you, bard!” The shopkeeper spoke as though it wasn’t currently pouring rain. “You’ve a keen eye for quality! Just needs a spit polish, these. I dare say you could even melt the trinket down for ore; it appears to be purely crafted, even though it’s a bit damaged.”

The barker’s voice crashed into him like waves on the shore in a storm.

“Where, ah…where did you find these fine specimens?” his numb tongue finally asked, eyes never leaving the gear.

Voice dropping to a stage whisper, the vendor stated, “Oh, t’were not a dainty tale, bard. There I be, minding my own, travelling by the edge of the black cliffs.” Jaskier knew the area well enough to nod, still trying to work saliva into his suddenly dry mouth. “Found the aftermath of a scuffle, something fierce! Dead dragons all around, cut down by these very blades! One was still embedded in the skull of the biggest beast; took me five minutes to dislodge it.” He was very proud of himself.

Jaskier, though, was nauseous.

“And their owner?”

Suddenly glowering and crossing tattooed arms over his beaten tunic, the barker snapped, “You’re looking at him. Didn’t break no laws, bard; didn’t do no grave robbin’. Claimed ‘em rightful, I did. No one around. Likely went over the edge into the rocks below. Looked like drag marks, like whoever it was had been weighted down and dropped to the spikes. Wouldn’t matter, anyhow. Too much red blood on top of everything. Likely died before hitting, I’d wager.”

The choking noise Jaskier made was probably closer to a sob than an agreement, and the other man’s stance gentled slightly. “Easy, lad. Know your type ain’t made for this kind of talk. But I did look over, didn’t see no one to help. No body, living or otherwise. So them’s fair for me to take, for me to sell.”

This, he jumped upon with a startling ferocity that stunned everyone within a five meter radius. In the end, he paid an unhealthy amount of gold for the gear, far more than the barker had any right to demand. But he would have given more, would have robbed every man and woman in Novigrad of their coin, to retrieve the precious weapons and necklace.

It did him little good.

An hour later found him sitting in a room in an inn, a pocketful of coppers buying a bed and silence for the evening. The swords lay quiet in their sheaths and harness, the leather torn and sliced, everything caked with a mix of iron and clay. When he’d placed them on the table and breathed his friend’s name, he thought, like a fool, that maybe it would summon the Witcher. That maybe, just maybe, there was enough sadness and grief in the world, and the gods would grant him a reprieve.

Instead, they lay still, almost mocking him with their presence.

In his hands, the simple silver medallion stared up at him with a gaping maw coated in blood. There was a slice through the metal, thick enough for him to work a fingernail into, if he was so inclined. It was still. Before, whenever he’d had the rare occasion to touch the Wolf’s Head, it had always oozed energy and heat, humming against his skin. But now, now it was dead.

Dead.

No, Jaskier refused to entertain the thought, refused to believe it. He would wait as long as it took. His friend would return. The mutant was more human than most, more dangerous than all, and would be back. He just had to wait.

And wait.

For six weeks, he waited.

The darkness in his life took on a painful pattern. He would sleep, swords at his side, medallion around his own throat, and wake with the dawn. He’d go to the tavern and play just enough mediocre music to secure food and lodging for the night, and then he would retreat from the world again.

Six weeks of unending rain and clouds and lightning.

Unexpectedly, he was taken out of his routine by a familiar sound on the street as he wandered numbly towards his bed one evening. A burring, a clack of hooves – something that he shouldn’t have recognized but did – jerked him from his dazed trudge with a shock of hope.

Roach was therefore regained with promises of more coin than he could earn in a year. She was thin, gaunt, wild-eyed and bereft. Someone had stolen her tack while she wandered in the wild, leaving her with a bit in her mouth that had worn into her lips. There were sores on her legs and her flanks, and her mane was tangled and matted.

So his routine changed. He played more heartily to earn what he owed, kept Roach stabled and well-fed, even had a medic review her hurts and assist in their healing. Jaskier slept in the barn with her more than in his own bed, saving coin, and shared more words and meals with her than with any human.

One night, the storms paused in their beating gale just long enough for the moon cast a sliver of light against her chestnut coat, and the bard whispered, “He isn’t coming back, is he?”

The silence that greeted him after was more devastating than finding the swords two months prior. Desperate denial made him scream, and he threw his lute against the wall, tore the medallion from his neck and hurled it against the back of the stable with an anguished howl.

The sound of metal shattering only reached his consciousness in the morning. Pulling himself from the ball of misery and exhaustion he’d become, Jaskier crawled across the hay to where the medallion had incomprehensibly cracked in two.

It was hollow.

There was a thin piece of parchment in the deepest recesses, old and worn, the ink long since losing its sharp scent. His fingers shook as he carefully unrolled the paper, eyes widening, and he read aloud.

_Jaskier,  
Finding this, you live yet.  
If Roach breathes, speak to her at dawn.  
Dandelion  
You will understand.  
\- Geralt_

He didn’t understand. Not yet. But he would trust his friend to the end.

He spent the day preparing for whatever awaited him upon following the instructions. The flower named was familiar, though the memory associated with it was dusty, old. He remembered Geralt approaching him during a week’s furlough at some nowhere nothingness in Velen, years after they began to travel together. There was a roll of official-looking parchment in his hand, and his golden eyes were serious enough that Jaskier had feared something was hunting them in the town. Instead, the Witcher had spoken gravely but briefly and only unrolled the end of the scroll, just enough for the bard to see a line for his signature. Under that, his name – full name, mind you – was gracefully writ. Oddly enough, below that, in Geralt’s more blocky writing, was the name of that flower. When pressed, he had just been told to sign as it was printed, and he’d done so, scribbling the final word with a bit more flourish than necessary.

_“Mind telling me what I signed?” he asked blandly when he finished, too much trust in the Witcher to put a barb in his voice. Indeed, Geralt hummed under his breath for a moment before he answered, “You might find out someday. If you don’t, I doubt you’ll be upset about it.”_

So there was that blasted weed again, cropping up like a stubborn tune that wouldn’t clear his ears, and his core cooled with delayed understanding. His friend had been right. If this was what it cost to find out about that odd document in the middle of No Man’s Land, then he’d forsake what he’d signed for a million times.

Provisions, water, travelling gear, tack for Roach – he owed much to one of his more wealthy patronesses, whom he’d called upon at noon and begged her grace. She paid out his debts, gave him more for his purse, and pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek when he turned to leave.

“Find your wind, lark,” she’d murmured as he walked out the door, and he grimaced against the rain on his skin. There was no breeze, no light whisper in the trees that would carry his soul aloft. Not since swords and silver and Wolf’s Head silent howl, and never would there be again.

But whatever this was, whatever Geralt’s message to Jaskier would be found at the end of the road, he would fly there, if only for the last time.

Thus he sat upon Roach, fresh and healthy and shiny in the gale, as the edge of the world grew dark and then light. Bracing himself, leaning down against her neck, he trailed his gloved fingers over her mane and allowed himself a single hitched breath of fear.

“Dandelion,” he whispered, and her ears twitched back almost immediately. A white glow haloed her head for a moment, and she danced on her hooves before burring in compliance and starting forward.

When they reached the gate, he didn’t know why, but he thought they might turn left. North. Towards Kaer Morhen, and cold, and bleakness and death.

They turned right. South.

Curious.

He gave Roach her head on the roads, her light canter steadying and calming. The rain still came down, but he was burrowed into new clothing, the twin swords on his back unnaturally heavy but secure, and it bothered neither him nor the mare in the least. The human had more pressing discomforts than mere weather, and the mare had been through worse.

The first night they stopped, sheltering from the waning breeze and mist in a small copse of trees, Jaskier allowed himself to remember.

The last time he’d seen Geralt, the Witcher had been heading out on a contract that he warned would take a bit of time. They’d not argued, though, and for once, Jaskier had been content with the White Wolf’s growled orders of staying put and writing music. The other man hadn’t even needed to expound upon the significant dangers of the contract, but had simply mentioned it would take him through an area where Jaskier’s reputation was, for once, more poorly received than Geralt’s. So he would stay and write and sing and add to their coffers. Geralt would hunt and return, adding coin to their pockets in his own way.

_“Take care, my friend, and beware the bards in those towns. Atrocious pentameter, I assure you.”_

He’d received a quiet hum once again, then the Witcher had strode towards the stables and disappeared into the crowd. He was supposed to be gone two weeks.

Five days after Geralt had left, Jaskier had found his prized weapons and his guild medallion in a market.

There was no fairness in life, and that night, under the trees, peeping stars making their way through the thinning clouds, Jaskier allowed himself to cry.

They fell into a pattern, him and Roach, after the first few days. He would awake before dawn, avail himself of some of his provisions, and ensure the mount was healthy to continue. He would sit astride the soft saddle and wait for the first light of day to break the sky. Then he’d speak but a word to her, and Roach would snuffle through a soft glow of white light, and they’d be off once again.

His lute, beyond repair, was strapped to the left saddlebag, taking the place of the endless gored trophies Geralt usually hung there. It was fitting, he supposed. He had appropriated everything from his friend: his life, his horse, his swords, his medallion. Why not this one last thing?

The Wolf’s Head hung against his skin beneath his doublet, a simple length of twine keeping the pieces together and on their chain. Every time his fingers brushed the metal, he felt a mix of shame and determination.

On he rode.

The days grew longer, the weather more stable and warmer, and Jaskier soon stowed his cloak but still bore the swords. He walked some, not even bothering to try to lead the mare. She knew her way through whatever magic was worked upon her, and they continued. South, the road went on, caravans and solitary travelers dotting the path. They reached a mass of tents, hastily setup, where a few merchants had stopped to sell their wares and peddle their crafts for a time. Jaskier allowed him and Roach to lose a day here, giving them both rest and ensuring their gear could move along this unknowable quest.

A second time, they stopped because whatever subtle glow usually coated the horse from dawn to dusk curiously winked out mid-gallop, and she startled, nearly bucking Jaskier off in her confusion. When she calmed, the bard looked around and recognized nothing dangerous, simply an expanse of low fields filled with wheat. His hand rested uneasily on the sword hanging from his hip – he wouldn’t dare sully his friend’s name by allowing untrained hands to wield the dangerous blades on his back. But his caution was unwarranted. There was nothing nearby but a creek and a rock bridge, and the bard judged the height of the sun with a practiced eye and shrugged. Late enough, he supposed.

They camped on the border of Toussaint that night, though Jaskier had no map to know this.

In the morning, he held his breath as he spoke that word, terrified beyond measure that the spell had worn and they would never reach their destination. But the glow returned, maybe even brighter, and she walked easily on the pressed dirt roads.

They continued on their way.

For some reason he would never understand, he was not assaulted upon the long road. He was a prime target: lone travelers, no matter how well armed they appeared, were notoriously easy targets for raiding bandits. He couldn’t recognize that his slight form swamped by three blades, two of them nearly as tall as his own body, made him an unappetizing risk. Even animals seemed to stay far away from him. 

Mountains and ravines gave way to fields and gentle valleys. Scrags and wheat turned into thick lush fields, then vineyards. Every small hill was crowned with a host of buildings, people moving to and fro between them. Jaskier didn’t much note any of this, though he did feel lighter without cold rain soaking through his clothes or Roach shivering under him with the crack of thunder. The climate here was mild, soothing, predictable. It was strange that sunlight was such a balm to his wounded soul.

There was guilt for it, of course. How dare his sorrows wane as the nights grew shorter? How dare his grief hum now instead of scream? Why should a smile grace his face every few days, when his friend would never smile again?

The days had turned to weeks to months, and Roach came to a slow, easy stop at a signpost as the glow around her ears disappeared entirely. She refused to move any further.

Blinking out of the highway doze he’d unknowingly sunken into, Jaskier glanced around, taking in his surroundings for the first time in a long time. He was at the base of a small hill, vines and stone walls stretching out around him like they were hugging the land. He heard the bustling speech of people at the top of the homestead, and he swallowed back the abrupt lump in his throat. Dismounting stiffly, he breathed in the clean, earthy smells around him and glanced at the sun – just past midday.

Leaving Roach as she was and tethering her reigns to the post, its wood marked with towns he didn’t know, directions to places he had never heard of, he felt suddenly alien and out of his depth. The road had been full but there was an unbreakable bubble of space about him that not even the most persistent travelling vendor had dared to breach. It had been three weeks since Jaskier had spoken to anyone but Roach, and his voice had suffered for it.

Refusing to waste any more time, nervousness and anxiety twisted his stomach into knots as he walked up the hill and climbed a few sections of ramps and stairs. Here and there, workers glanced at him, eyes friendly, and none barred his way.

His hand fell heavily on the front door, three times in succession.

The man that opened the entry was unfailingly polite and proper, though he was as curious as to the bard’s appearance on the doorstep as the bard himself.

“Hale, sir. I apologize for the disturbance, but…” Here Jaskier froze, his lips stumbling over words that he’d practiced but now found absolutely useless when spoken. His magicked horse had brought him here? He was following a dead man’s summons?

No, he had no words.

“I apologize as well, traveler, but I am no ‘sir’. I am Majordomo Barnabas-Basil Foulty, not the lord of the property. If you seek the master of the house, he is not here; hasn’t been in some time, and I am unaware of when he will return. I can offer you rest and respite if you need it, though. My master never refuses to help those who call upon him.”

There was a bit of swirling confusion choking Jaskier, and the majordomo took his silence for refusal. “Then I wish you well,” and he started to shut the door.

“Wait! Wait, please,” the bard suddenly called, pressing his palm to the wood. His callouses were long lost, and he felt the smoothness of newer paint caress his fingertips. The other man stopped, wary but unafraid, and cocked his head. “I don’t…I don’t know what I’m doing here,” Jaskier finally said, dropping his eyes to the floor. “I received a missive from my dear friend, and I followed it to the letter. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.”

Frowning, the majordomo raised an eyebrow. “If you do not know why you’re here, traveler, then I much doubt I have any notion, either. Please, rest in the garden around the side until you’ve regained your wits.”

This time, the door was faster to close, and the younger man desperately shouted, “Dandelion!”

Like the world had frozen at the call of the Wild Hunt, the entry ceased to close, and Barnabas-Basil stared at him with wide eyes. Time stayed this way for moments longer than a few, and the bard did not feel the watering of his eyes or the crystal tears that slicked down his face.

“Master Jaskier?”

Jerking in place, there was an abrupt understanding of the look he was receiving from the older servant. Recognition, sorrow, resignation. It crossed through the eyes under his eyewear like a fire flaring and then simmering into banked coals too cool to reignite. It was still not enough to distract him.

“That’s one of my monikers, yes. My real name is Julian Alfred Pankratz,” he replied softly, and there was a bit of desperation tinging his voice as he asked, “What am I doing here?”

Sighing softly, the majordomo opened the door wide and gestured towards the hall before him. There were colors and smells pouring over his senses, and he stumbled into the home.

“Welcome to Corvo Bianco, the vineyard and homestead of Sir Geralt of Rivia, the Bridge his Crest.”

Jaskier lost a bit of time after that.

There was a meal, and a tour at some point, and he found himself sitting on a bench at twilight with a glass of rare wine in his hand and his face streaked with saltwater. Beside him, the majordomo sipped his own drink.

“Master Geralt wanted to ensure that you’d be cared for if he fell to blade or claw, Master Jaskier. The paper you signed years ago was a willed deed. Dandelion was the pass code to allow me to recognize you. He visited only a couple times a year, as the needs of the duchy demanded, but he would send money for equipment and upgrades and other special upkeep not financed by the Duquesa herself. He spent quite the purse restoring this homestead to its prior glory. His aim was that you would want for nothing when he passed.”

Staring into the Sangreal, the ducal wine of Toussaint, Jaskier choked out, “Why did he not tell me?”

Frowning slightly, Barnabas-Basil replied, “I asked him the same, when he was having the papers drawn up for your living inheritance. I wondered the wisdom of spellcasting the route into his mount, especially since the land’s been yours since you signed. It seemed to me that anything that brought him low would take that mare, as well.” Sniffing wetly, Jaskier whispered, “Not a chance. He loved that horse.”

A sadly fond smile touched the majordomo’s lips as he clarified, “And you as well, Master Jaskier. He told me you were the brother of his soul. He spoke of you as a friend of yore, holding your name higher than those of Regis and Vesemir and more. Apparently, you are the only one who was ever honest with him at every turn.”

Waving an arm to encompass the expansive grounds before them, the bard bit out, “Then why? He had all of this – he could have stopped. He could have retired, lived a quiet and peaceful life! No more toxic potions and venomous beasts and people treating him as…as a freak. A mutant. A monster.” His voice was soft, pained, and his companion huffed a sigh.

“Indeed. I dare say he was a tad embarrassed, at first. From what I gathered, he never had a home beyond some ruin in the north. He never had servants or land or income he didn’t bleed for.”

Eyes brimming and throat burning, Jaskier murmured, “He usually didn’t even have a bed. Nothing more than a saddle and blanket upon which to lay that thrice-damned noble head of his.” His shoulders slumping, the other admitted sadly, “I thought as much. Master Geralt was fearsome, forceful, intense. He bared his teeth even when he smiled. But he also worked for years here in Toussaint, fighting for the citizens against monsters and magic of old. He saved many, protected more. He earned quite the admiring public here after he was temporarily retained to the duchy’s employ. And the kindness shown by the people seemed to worry him more than the beasts he fought.” The older man paused, then continued, “I’ve served many in my time, Master Jaskier. None broke my heart as much as he.”

The majordomo’s sadness couldn’t touch his own.

Barnabas-Basil cleared his throat and added, “And if I may be so bold to say so, Master Jaskier, but you’ve already proven to be the man my master described and more. You have no ill words for being denied your living inheritance all this time?”

Shaking his head, the bard found the concept almost amusing. “Of course not. I didn’t earn this, not by right or deed or blood. I only wish that he would have taken advantage of what he had before him. Then maybe…maybe he’d still be here to enjoy the fruits.”

Sipping at his wine, the older man responded, “And begging apologies again, master, but I believe he truly did, in his own way. He was not at ease here, not truly, until he had obtained your signature. He required little of his life but the knowledge that his actions would benefit those he cared for.”

That, Jaskier knew, was the truth of the Witcher, through and through.

In the days following his arrival at the homestead, Jaskier found himself encountering those that had been mentioned. One appeared in a pillar of smoke with upraised hands and quiet words, asking after his ‘dear Witcher’. Shortly after, the other showed with cat eyes narrowed and grim, stating that the keep had been too quiet the last few winters and wondered when Geralt would be back.

They both received the same answer: a broken gesture towards the twin swords resting atop each other on a low table, the broken medallion twisted around the hilts with infinite care. Candles were ever burning around the weapons, an unceasing shrine to the man who’d wielded them. On the wall above hung a picture that Jaskier had found tucked away in a large chest: Geralt holding his swords and facing a panther, peacock, and giant centipede. Described as such, it sounded monstrous.

In reality, it was an orange and gold masterpiece that showcased the Witcher’s strength and heart.

They were quiet when they left, disbelief and shock taking their voices, and Jaskier let them go without any words of his own.

What could any of them say at this point? They’d lost haecceity in its living form. It wasn’t a metaphor for which there was no compare. No, the man had been something that would never be again, simply be the essence of himself. The definition of dedication and faith in something he could touch, even if it was just the edges of his blades. The force and gentleness of a hurricane and the clear skies that followed after. The trueness of someone who was forced into a life of servitude to an entire world and did nothing but his best.

No, nothing to say.

Jaskier wiled away his time at the property like it was his. It wasn’t, he ensured everyone knew. He was no more than a caretaker, same as all the rest of them. Denial wasn’t what drove him, no. It was belief, faith. Faith, like Geralt had shown him time and again. Faith, like had turned Regis, a higher vampire, into someone who could use the phrase ‘dear Witcher’ and mean it without contempt or scorn. Faith, like had brought Vesemir all the way from the northern wastelands down the southern climes.

Yennefer made an appearance, by proxy, at least. A raven had swooped into the open door one bright morning, cawing loudly and angrily. But it fell silent after it perched on the back of a chair, black eyes fixed on the swords and flickering in the candlelight. It sat, statuesque, for a number of minutes, and then turned its head to take in Jaskier’s slumped form. It had been a long night, that, and the bard had fallen into grief and dreams at the base of the simple memorial.

The raven left without another sound.

So life continued.

And a year and a day after Jaskier had crossed into Toussaint, life, well, _happened_.

Working his way doggedly through another one of the worn tomes he’d found about the house, sitting in a wooden chair at the table in the main hall, Jaskier heard something odd. He set the book facedown, ignoring an old professor’s warning about damaging the spine, and he slowly looked around, trying to pin the source. It was a soft chime, like glass trembling in a thunderstorm. He couldn’t place it.

Then it grew louder, and his eyes landed on the Wolf’s Head as its dual pieces vibrated angrily against the swords.

There was barely time to react. In an instant, the world turned bright and blue like the clearest skies on the hottest days, and the ground rumbled and lurched while magic cracked the air. Reacting on instinct saved the bard some horribly uncomfortable fate. Instead, his back pressed against the wall and gaze sharp with alarm, he protected himself from the vortex with his arms while struggling to see through the sapphire storm.

The shimmering swirl of a portal phasing into existence at the highest peak of the roof.

The dark dirt showering out of the chaotic cavern.

The white and black and silver that tumbled through the air.

The portal closed with a shriek, but even that otherworldly sound could not overshadow the almighty crash as something fell, hard and heavy, straight down on the long table in the middle of the hall. There was enough force in the landing that the table flipped on its side, everything on the surface smashing into the ground in a cacophony of noise that seemed never-ending.

It did end, of course. Nothing was eternal.

The world grew still again, silent except for Jaskier’s heavy breaths, and he stared at the bottom of the table. He couldn’t see what had careened through the opening, hadn’t identified it as it fell, and feared what was on the other side of the wooden barrier.

So he didn’t move, barely blinked lest he miss some quick movement of attack or retreat, and tried to determine his best course of action.

A soft groan, then. Something familiar. Maybe.

Heart pounding like a blacksmith’s hammer on steel, the bard still didn’t move. His ears were ringing, his palms sweaty, his knees like water. He couldn’t trust his senses. Would not. The sorrow and grief were still too fresh and burst anew every morning – they would not let him live this nightmare and come out unscathed. He refused, therefore, to entertain the painful hope.

There was a hidden movement that dislodged some of the table’s contents from their fallen position, and that groan etched through the air again like acid on metal. There was a scuffle, then a black glove stained with red raised enough to grip the top edge of the table unsteadily. An arm, then a shoulder, and finally a body followed it into sight.

He couldn’t breathe. If he did, he would cease to be. He had wanted that before.

Not now.

Jaskier had begged the gods for their pardon, for their succor, for everything from life for his friend to death for himself. He had never received an answer, no matter what he pledged in return. He had thus resigned himself to this painful existence of remembrance, a living memory of his dearest friend.

There were many ways to imitate someone. Creatures of all kinds were able to impersonate human beings. Flesh and bone were easy to manipulate into a more than passable likeness of anyone. They could shape the black steel-studded armor without effort. They could copy the white hair pulled back into a ponytail, shaved sides flecked with blood and mud. They could reproduce the vocal cords to make the same growl in the face of pain and confusion.

But the _eyes_ , though, _the eyes!_

Windows to the soul and all they were, nothing could recreate that worn, golden gaze. No creature in any realm or world or sphere could remake those eyes.

And as the specter staggered on his feet, those eyes pinned the young man in place, and his lips parted to show fangs.

Then, “ _Jask’r_ …?”

He wasn’t even aware he’d moved.

Unsure if his feet even touched the ground between the wall and the table, Jaskier crashed into the Witcher with all the gentleness of a golem’s backhand. There was a hitch in the unsteady breaths, but it was hidden underneath the bard’s whispered words.

“Please, please let this dream continue! Please! I cannot bear his death again! My friend, my _friend_ , please stay!”

It was only once Geralt’s uninjured arm crossed his shoulders in a weak but steady embrace did Jaskier realized he was sobbing with abandon. His pride would forgive him. He had nothing to be ashamed of in the Witcher’s eyes – he knew this. Appreciated it, deeply. And abused it thoroughly now.

“Peace, bard,” the soft words cut across his inane babbling with gentle strength. “Peace. Be still, Jaskier. All is well.”

And it was only after he pulled back and saw the exhaustion and weariness on the Witcher’s face that he inhaled long enough to quiet himself, if only for a moment.

“You fell,” he murmured, ducking his head. There was a jerking rumble under his palms that he identified as a stilted laugh. “Indeed. Damn mage dragged me over a cliff after I killed his pet forktails. Lit up a portal halfway down, unsteady as a newborn foal; I’m unsure where he disappeared to. Feels like I’ve been falling forever.”

Choking on relief and fear, Jaskier answered, “No, just a year and a half.”

Geralt stiffened, breathing picking up for a moment, and then he made a painful sound in the back of his throat. “He tore off my medallion. You…you thought I was dead.”

He had obviously, finally taken in his surroundings: the warm house, the incense burning in the loft that made his tongue tingle, the sounds of vine workers singing outside, and the memorial over Jaskier’s shoulder. So he sagged in place, just slightly enough to equalize their heights, and pressed his forehead against the bard’s.

“I’m so sorry, Dandelion.”

The laughter that bubbled from his throat was nearly hysterical, and he leaned back, taking in his friend with bloodshot eyes and a tremulous smile. “I never want to hear that word again, Geralt.”

Giving a twitch of his lips, the Wolf nodded once.

Life moved and happened and time pressed in and out of normalcy until the night’s shadows were growing long. Bathed and bandaged, resting comfortably in the master bedroom (which Jaskier had never taken), Geralt hummed under his breath as Jaskier tried to pry more details about the fight.

“It wasn’t a question of skill, bard, but one of numbers. Five mature forktails and one pissed off mage made for a difficult fight. And they weren’t even the contract; I hadn’t even made it to the beginning of the trail when I ran into them. Call it bad luck.”

Jaskier stared at him, unused to the sound of the Witcher’s voice and hanging on his every syllable. “I’ll call it worse than that. I’m a poet, my friend – I have many words at my disposal, and can readily summon any number of them to more adequately describe this situation.”

Grunting and shifting to be more comfortable, Geralt let his eyes slip closed and said lowly, “I guess it would be hard, with no fresh material for Witcher ballads. But I’m sure you appreciated the peace and quiet for working on other songs.”

Staring at him, Jaskier’s voice was strangled as he replied softly, “Agony. It was…it was the most painful experience I’ve suffered, Geralt. Believing you dead but praying otherwise, spending months travelling to a land I didn’t know, finding an expansive holding bequeathed to my living name, and mourning you daily. Agony, my friend. Why would there be music in a world like that? Why would I do anything less than burn my shattered lute the night I arrived here?”

Blinking open his hyperaware gaze, Geralt stared at him for a moment and then relaxed a bit more. “You never cease to amaze me, little lark.”

The last tears of pain turned into tears of relief, and Jaskier let them flow. His world was equal again, his friend returned from the dead, his soul’s brother breathing shallowly but evenly across the room from him. He didn’t know if there was a lesson in all this. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be reevaluating the way he’d worked his life around the honorable man who deigned to help both monsters and humans alike.

All he truly knew was that there was a new lute in his room the following morn.

And as he strummed the first chord, the breeze outside danced merrily.


End file.
